


Subterranean Homesick Blues

by Oh_Martha_My_Dear



Category: Bob Dylan - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: F/M, M/M, New York, Pauls is great wingman even from miles away, Tom is clueless but we love him, Working class George, folk Bob, modernau, ringo is straight but supportive, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22709185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Martha_My_Dear/pseuds/Oh_Martha_My_Dear
Summary: George works your average 9-5 job and recently got sent to New York on a business trip. Bob is a musician just trying to make ends meet. Once their two paths cross, who knows where the road will lead them.
Relationships: Bob Dylan/George Harrison, Bob Dylan/Suze Rotolo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	1. Subterranean Homesick Blues

“You’ve been gone for bloody Ages” Ringo whines over the phone as George desperately tries to weave his way through the oncoming stream of people filing down the thin New York sidewalk.

“Rich, I’ve been gone for three days” George replies with a sigh. Ringo groans dramatically in response.

“Three days is practically a century in England though”. George laughs shortly. 

As he looks up at the skyscrapers that encase him inside this over crowded city he feels a sort of resentment towards being a working class citizen. Stupid fucking job. Out of all places on planet Earth, they had to send him here for two months. The place that smells like piss and cigarette smoke and is filled with people who are all equally angry about it. George wasn’t sure how many times he had been shouted at today but the number had to be in the hundreds. He was punished for walking quickly, walking slowly, for not getting in a cab fast enough, for not stepping forward in line immediately after some space opened up. It appeared that all New Yorkers were obsessed with time, George doesn’t know how though. The skyscrapers and the dense layer of smoke that covers every inch of this god forsaken city block out so much sun that it’s hard to tell if it’s 9am or 11pm. 

His gaze is pulled from the rooftops of buildings back down to the street as a man hits his shoulder harshly with his own. 

“Watch where you're going!” the man shouts angrily before continuing on his path.

“I wouldn't worry too much Rich, I'll get out of this fucking city as soon as I can” George says to Ringo who is only half listening.

He can hear his friend scold his house cat even through the crackly reception he has in this part of the city. “You better, mate - Korky, get the fuck away from that plant! - If you are not back soon I will come get you myself - I swear to god I will crucify you on the neighbors fence if you knock that over”.

“I see that cat is still as mischievous as when I left” George says as he comes to a stop at a crosswalk. 

“Like she would ever change” Ringo says, his voice sounding far away as he gets up to retrieve said cat from the window sill. 

“Little bitch is still a menace”. If George had a penny for every time Ringo voiced his resentment towards cats to him he would need to be traveling to New York for his job because he would be a gazillionaire. He’s heard the same spiel so many times that he could practically recite it by heart now. ‘It’s Maureen’s fucking cat’ he says. ‘Just because she broke up with me doesn’t mean I should be stuck with it!’. George always tries to comfort him by saying that maybe she just doesn’t trust him yet and that some cats are skittish. But Korky always chooses that moment to crawl into George’s lap and start purring loudly. 

“Tell the boys I said hi, would you?” George says. 

The light changes at the crosswalk and once again he is ushered forward.

“Will do. Of course, if you acknowledge their existence, they will be begging for a phone call every night, especially Paul” Ringo replies. Paul, John, Ringo, ...the boys. George’s breath almost hitches as he thinks about them. It’s too early to be homesick though, he tells himself. But then again, he’ll be stuck here for two months with not even so much as an acquaintance. George groans quietly as he scolds himself internally for taking this job that has stolen all of his time and forced him to be places that made him wish he was dead.

“I’m sure” George says in response.

Just then, something darts around George’s feet. He looks down just in time to see a curly white tail disappear between the legs of a group of businessmen with a bright pink leash trailing behind it. George says a quick, “Got to go” into the phone before hanging up and heading in the opposite direction, ignoring Ringo's protests as he hits the end call button. 

He forces his way against the current of bodies and brushes off the constant stream of annoyed comments aimed his direction. George almost gets close enough to grab the leash but then gets shoved back by a shoulder or leg and has to start from square one over and over again. George sighs annoyedly. Any normal person would let it go, classify it as something that is not their problem. But George, he couldn’t bare just walking away. What if the poor thing gets lost? He thinks. Or even worse, wanders into the road? Which is looking like a legitimate possibility seeing as he can’t get close enough the damn thing to catch it. 

But then, finally, he steps on the edge of the leash and the dog stops in its tracks. Quickly, George scoops up the small terrier in his arms. 

“Hello there darling” He says affectionately, moving off to the side, out of the way of the rushing bodies. 

“Are you lost?” He asks, but the dog doesn’t answer of course, only stares at him clueless with his black, beady eyes. The dog's expression reminds George about how Ringo looks when he doesn’t quite understand a joke. His eyes unfocused, his head cocked to the side, complete and utter confusion evident on his face. Maybe Ringo's a dog person and that's why Korky doesn’t like him, George thinks to himself. He smiles at his sweet face but whips his head around when a voice breaks through the loud ruckus of the city.

“Buck!” It yells, sounding frantic and worried. George figures that there is a good possibility that this is the dog's owner seeing as Buck is a pretty unusual name for a human. He watches the people as they rush past, waiting to hear that voice again. 

“Buck, come here you lil’ shit!” The man’s voice yells once again.

‘Yep, it’s definitely him’ George thinks to himself.

The voice sounded closer this time so George tightens his grip on the small dog and jumps back into the crowd, advancing the opposite direction as almost everyone else. Then, so fast that neither of them knew what happened, the two crashed together in a heap of limbs, and white fur.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” the man says. 

George stands from his place on the sidewalk and the man does the same. It’s in that moment that George simply takes a second to process the features of the man's face in front of him because, well, there’s a lot to process. 

George thinks that to say that his hair is curly would be an understatement. He suspects that if you stuck your hand into the mass of brunette curls that lay atop the man’s head you may not get it back as his hair weaves around in endless circles, forming a net of sorts.

The next thing George notices is his eyes, blue, unusual for someone with such dark hair. But they were blue, crystal blue to be exact. 

Then, George’s eyes traveled down to the man’s clothes. His wrinkled button up was only halfway tucked into his jeans that were at least two sizes too big and being held up by a thick brown belt. The hems on the pants bunch up at his feet, allowing only a sliver of his dirt caked boots to be seen. 

And finally, to tie the whole look together, he has a guitar slung across his back, who’s strings hadn’t been trimmed the last time they were changed, each one shooting off in different directions like cat whiskers. 

He certainly is interesting. 

After the man reorients himself, he too can take in the other man's features. He doesn't get too far however and stops when he lands on what George is holding. Like a switch, the man’s eyes went from full of worry and concern to absolute, pure joy. 

“Buck!” He says, taking the dog from George’s arms. 

The dog immediately crawls up on his shoulder and starts licking the man’s face. 

“Thank you so much for grabbing him. The little fucker is always getting away from me” He says, taking his eyes off the dog for a brief moment to look at George. 

“No worries, he’s a cute dog” George responds. 

The man smiles and nuzzles his face in the dogs fur before offering out his hand. 

“Bob, Bob Dylan” He says, ignoring the dog who has now resorted to licking log stripes up the side of Bobs face. 

George takes his hand and replies with “George Harrison, dog catcher extraordinaire”. 

Bob laughs at his comment before saying. “Where you from man?, I don't hear that accent very often”. 

“Liverpool, Speke to be specific”. 

Bob nods in response as if he knew exactly which town George was talking about and visits there every other weekend. George can see Bob physically jump as he remembers an important thought. He digs through his back pocket briefly before pulling out a crumpled up flier. 

“If you're interested, I’m performing at a club tomorrow tonight, I play mostly folk tunes but I take requests” Bob explains as he hands the piece of paper to George. 

‘Bob Dylan. Cafe Wha? April 5th 9-10:30’

“The whole reason me and Buck we’re out here, braving the streets of New York, was to hand out these fliers” Bob says, setting the dog back down on the ground and wrapping the leash around his hand a few times for good measure.

“I’d love to see you there and get to know you better Mr. George Harrison. I’ve always wondered what life is like across the pond”. 

George smiles and folds the flier up into a square before pocketing it. 

“I’ll try and make it” He says, hoping that his boss for the next two months won’t hold him back later than usual. 

“Well, nice to meet you and thanks again for catching Buck here” Bob says before turning the direction he was headed before he had to sprint through the masses of people to retrieve his West Highland White Terrier. 

“Nice to meet you too” George says as he turns as well, falling back in line with the afternoon lunch rush.

He laughs quietly to himself as he thinks about the man's whole demeanor. Bob Dylan puts off the vibe of your classic tortured music artist who finds pleasure in charming any woman he lays his eyes on before leaving them high and dry without so much as a phone call. ‘Of course’, George thinks, ‘He’s just as fake as the rest of them’. However, George could not deny that the man was attractive and most likely did not have any trouble when charming said women. He could not think of anyone who could deny a set of crystal blue eyes and curly brown hair. 

George shakes his head and refocuses on his journey to work. When he realizes where he is, he comes to an abrupt stop and backtracks a few steps, having passed the building without noticing. As George pushes his way through glass double doors of the building he will call “Work” for the next two months he is met with a harsh blast of cold air. He shivers and continues walking, his shoes making a clicking sound on the marble floors. ‘Why did this place even install those things?’ George thinks. He’s sure it has something to do with saving money when it comes to air conditioning costs and keeping bugs out but still, the unpleasantness of it should overrule the couple of cents they get to save on their monthly bill. 

He waves quickly to the receptionist who doesn't return it and focuses on her monitor as he turns to find the elevators. He presses the button for floor six several times once inside, and sighs as he feels it start to move. The sooner he can get into his office the better, he’s eager to finally sit down at his desk, alone, and do what he is being paid to do, code. 

Five days a week, eight hours a day, George sits in front of a computer screen testing and evaluating software. He’s aware that it's not the most interesting job in the world but it pays the bills and he's good at it which is the whole reason he was sent to New York in the first place. None of the other employees at Georges workplace were efficient enough to be sent overseas at the company's expense. 

The elevator dings before it opens its doors and allows George to step off. His shoes don't click as the floors on this level are covered in thick grey carpeting. He rushes past the isles of cubicles, hoping that he looks busy enough to not get stopped by anyone. 

Nevertheless, just as he is mere steps away from the door of his office, George feels a hand grasp his shoulder. He groans quietly and plasters that friendliest looking smile he can muster on his face before turning around. 

“Hey there George!” his coworker says with a massive toothy grin plastered on his big, red face.

“Hello Michael” George responds, shifting his weight back and forth awkwardly. 

He then spends the next five minutes trying desperately to end a conversation about soccer - “Or do they call it football in your country, right George?” - before he fakes a phone call from his mother and excuses himself. 

He sighs and closes his eyes once he is sat behind his desk. He runs a heavy hand across his face, thanking every God imaginable that he has finally found some peace and quiet. As soon as he stepped off of the plane, George quickly realized that nothing is quiet in this city. The people, the buses, the cars, the cafes, the restaurants. Any moment of silence was a blessing in New York City and George simply sat there bathing in it. 

But, as fate would have it, his Boss bursts in at that very moment carrying a giant heap of paper. 

“We just have a little bit of paperwork for you to go over this afternoon, no biggie” he explains before unloading the paper onto the desk and George could swear that he saw the wood dip and strain under the weight. 

With a quick ‘Thanks bud’ his Boss exits the room with a little salute in Georges direction. 

Once he again finds himself alone in his office, George strangled the air in front of him, wishing so badly that it was his bosses neck. He then crumples on the desk, burying his face in his arms and sighing. 

Today is going to be a long day.


	2. It Ain't Me Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the show and George has the opposite of Gay-Panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, sorry to the delay in updates. Life has been kicking my ass lately. Hope you enjoy and as always, feedback is greatly appriciated.
> 
> Sincerly,
> 
> Marie.

George groans as his sleep is rudely interrupted by his phone ringing. He rolls over with a whine and blindly reaches for the source of the sound. Once his hand is firmly grasped around it, he lifts his phone up in front of his face and takes a moment to peel his tired eyes open and have them adjust to the light pouring through his window. 

‘Richie’ the screen says, followed by two devil emojis. George rolls his eyes dramatically. He presses his phone up to the side of his face after hitting answer and immediately he is hit with yelling on the other line. 

“What the hell did I do to you?” Ringo says, anger evident in his voice. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” George asks, running a hand slowly across his face.

“You blowing me off yesterday is what I’m talking about” Ringo answers and George can almost see him place his hands on his hips in a sassy manner. He almost smiles but then catches sight of the clock. 

“Jesus Christ, it's 6:30 in the bloody morning!” George complains but it's cut short by another rambling sentence from Ringo. 

“I don't know about you but I don't exactly appreciate being hung up on by my best friend when I am thousands of miles away worried to death about him” Ringo says. 

“I know, Rich,” George starts, willing himself to wake up and form a coherent thought. 

“But, there was this dog..”. 

“You hung up on me because you saw a fucking dog?” Ringo asks disbelievingly. 

“No!’ George says. “The dog got away from its owner, it was running down the street. I didn't want it to get lost!”. 

There is a moment of silence until George hears Ringo mumble a very quiet “Sorry”. 

“Still pisses me off though, I mean you ignored my calls for the rest of the day”. 

“Sorry, I know that was a dick move but I had to work late and just kind of crashed in my bed once I got home” George explains but is only met with tense silence on the other line.

“I’ll take you to play mini golf when I get back if that will stop your sulking. My treat” George offers. 

More silence follows before Ringo replies with “It wouldn't hurt”. 

At that, George rolls out from underneath his covers and puts Ringo on speaker before setting his phone down on the bedside table.

“So, what happened with this dog. Did you find who it belonged to?” Ringo asks. 

George stretches his hands high above his head with a yawn before responding. 

“Yeah, turned out to be this musician bloke” George explains as he tucks the corners of his covers back into place. 

“Ooooo '' He hears a voice say over the line. 

George does nothing but scoff in response. “Don’t tell me I’m on speaker phone?” he asks exasperatedly. 

His question is not answered and instead he hears a small struggle happen on Ringo's end. ‘Gimme the phone!’ ‘No! He’s my best friend’ ‘Don’t be such a bitch!’. Then, a loud thump tells George that the phone fell to the ground, and a victorious sigh tells him that Ringo did not win the fight. 

“Tell me, was he cute?” Paul asks him. 

“Good god, I only met the guy for five minutes!” George says, shaking his pillow back into its pillowcase and setting down at the head of the bed. 

“Oh, and did your eyes just stop working during those five minutes?” Paul shoots back and George can almost hear the cheeky grin on his face because he knows that he has backed George into a corner. 

“He was,” He starts, sighing and rubbing one of his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Y’know, he was handsome I guess”. Once George finishes his sentence he can hear Paul chuckle. 

“Georgie! Two days in America and you're already picking up guys”. 

“Who said anything about me picking him up?” George says defensively, sitting back down on his freshly made bed. “Besides, I’m not even into men ''. 

Paul sighs dramatically in response. “What a shame, you've got such a pretty face”. 

George rolls his eyes even though Paul can't see him. 

“Well, what did you and mystery man talk about in these five minutes?” Paul inquires. 

“Not much, but he did give me a flier to his show tonight, said he wanted to know more about me”. 

Paul is practically screaming at this point. “You do know that this guy is into you right?”. 

George laughs under his breath. “Sod off, mate”. 

“I’m serious! This guy wants to bang you” Paul insists. 

“Everytime someone has wanted to ‘Get to know more about me’ it has always ended with sex”, George screws up his face in disgust. 

“Too much information Paulie” he can hear Ringo shout in the background. 

George stares at his hands, suddenly feeling very nervous about attending the show tonight. He knows that most of the things that come out of Paul's mouth should be taken with a grain of salt but for some reason this particular comment gets under his skin. 

“I don't even know if I’m going to go” He says quietly. 

What if this guy is into him? What if he has to do the thing where you let someone down gently? George sighs and buries his head in his hands as he realises that he has never been good at doing things in a gentle manner. His version of letting someone down gently is closer to dropping them from a fifth story window. 

“I swear Georgie, if you spend all your time in New York cooped up in a hotel room I will sacrifice you to pagan gods when you get back”. 

George glances out the window, watching the bustling streets, astounded that the city is already awake this early. 

“It will be good for you, my friend. Go out, meet some people” Paul continues. 

George nods. “We’ll see” he responds. 

At that, Paul groans and hands the phone off to Ringo. “You’re impossible” George hears Paul say. 

He smiles briefly before picking up his phone off the bedside table and taking it off speaker. “Rich, please tell me you’re not as hard set on this as Paul” George pleads helplessly as he heads into the bathroom and flips on the lights. 

“Sorry Geo, I think you should go too”. 

George sighs dramatically at his response as he squirts a large glob of toothpaste on to his toothbrush and runs it under the faucet before shoving it into his mouth with a grumpy expression. George pouting is ultimately pointless as no one on the other line can see him but his crossed arms angry eyebrows stay put nonetheless. ‘Maybe this won’t be as bad as I think it will be’ George thinks to himself as he spits into the sink. Maybe this guy is just really friendly and wants to get to know him as a friend, yeah, that's gotta be it. 

He runs a hand through his hair as he stares at his reflection. He looks tired. The bags under his eyes have their own bags and his five o’clock shadow is turning into 3 o’clock stubble at this point. He glances briefly at the bag that holds all of his hair products that he brought ‘Just in case’ he had to attend a formal event. 

“Fine,” George relents. “I’ll go” He can hear Paul audibly gasp on the other line. 

George grasps the edge of the bathroom counter hard and stares himself down. 

“You can do this George” He tells himself quietly. 

“Use protection” Paul yells in the background, George simply hangs up as a response.

******************* 

At work, time went by both unbearably slow and incredibly fast. Today, George had to scan each and every page of paperwork that he had filled out the day prior. As time went by it seemed more and more like he was being paid to do paperwork about his current financial status and his citizenship rather than code. 

At around the fiftieth time that he had opened and closed the top of the industrial printer, another person decided to join him in the printing room. George kept his gaze glued to the printer tray, hoping for time to go faster but also praying for it to stop entirely so he wouldn't have to deal with Bob's show later tonight. It was like a shadow in a murky lake, inching closer and closer and you don't know if you should be afraid or not because the figure underneath is hidden among the mud and seaweed. 

George is well aware that he is overthinking this entire situation but he can't help but worry. Turning someone down is easier said than done, he should know, he's been on both sides in that situation. On his way to work this morning he seriously considered just skipping the whole thing but if he tells Paul and Ringo that he didn't go he would never hear the end of it and if he lied and said he did go then Ring would see through it immediately. He’s found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. 

Fucking Paul. If only he had kept his mouth shut, George would actually be able to focus on the task in front of him and not scan the same document five times. If he had kept his mouth shut then George could just go to the show and cross that precarious bridge when he gets to it. He breathes in deeply before exhaling through his nose. ‘Everything will be fine’ He tells himself.

“Hey do you have any staples over there?” a voice asks from behind him. 

This startles George out of his trance having forgotten that there was even another person in the room. He quickly reaches for the box of staples and spins around to hand them to him. Once he lays eyes on the man, George is met with a mop of sandy coloured, blond hair and a pair of greenish blue eyes. 

“Thanks man” he says as he grabs the small box from Georges hand. 

The man's thick, undeniably american accent practically reaches out and slaps George in the face. 

“No problem, mate”’ George says as he turns back around, intent on falling back into his printer focused meditation. 

“Hey” the man speaks up again. 

George sighs and turns back around, raising his eyebrows as a response. 

“Where’d you get that accent from?” he asks simply. 

“Liverpool” George replied bluntly. 

“Ahh” the man says, nodding his head slowly. “I wish I had one of those, it’s practically impossible to pick up girls with a face like this and a regular ol’ american accent”. 

“Maybe you should save up and buy yourself one for christmas” George replies, deciding that if he has nothing better to do than he might as well engage in some harmless conversation.

“Yeah, wouldn't that be neat” the man responds smiling. 

The room falls silent and the clock on the wall ticks on, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of a stapler cutting through paper.

“And y’know” he starts again, and George almost laughs at this man's obsession with accents. “It would even be better if I had one of those charming southern drawl accents,” He continues, imitating the accent once it is mentioned.  
“Or even a nice, mellow, california accent. But nope,” he makes a point to make a loud popping noise when pronouncing the ‘P’. “I’m stuck with fucking florida”. 

The man busies himself with stapling and Georges takes that as his que to continue his work as well but has to whip back around again a few seconds later when the man speaks again. 

“I’m sorry. I just realised you have no idea who I am” he says before stretching out his hand. “Hi I’m Tom. And you’re George right?” 

George takes Tom’s hand. “Yes actually. How do you know who I am, may I ask?” George inquires, dropping the man's hand as he laughs in response, showing off his big toothy grin. 

“If you havent noticed already, nothing interesting really happens around here” He starts, gesturing towards the expanse of people all working there cubicles that lay just beyond the doorway. 

“The most interesting people that work here are from Boston and even they aren't exactly the life of the party”. 

Tom gathers all of his now stapled bundles of paper in his hands before continuing. 

“So, naturally, when we heard that we were getting a temporary employee from England we were all practically jumping for joy. Or, as much as you can in this stupid uniform” he says, gesturing to his perfectly ironed dress pants. 

“Pretty soon after, we found out your name and now we're here” He ends, evening out the stack of papers in his hand on the top of one of the tables. 

“Wow” George says. “Glad to know I’m a celebrity”. 

George continues with his scanning, opening the top of the printer once again and laying down a single piece of paper on the glass before closing it. 

“I wouldn't say a celebrity, more like a person of interest” Tom explains, heading towards the door. 

George cracks a smile at that comment. “You know that means a criminal right?” he says. 

“A computer coder is basically a hacker so they’re interchangeable” Tom says this as he leaves the room but pauses in the doorway. 

“Nice to meet you George” he says briefly, waving a goodbye before leaving completely this time. 

George shakes his head in disbelief. New York is inhabited by the strangest people.


	3. Boots of Spanish Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George continues to have the opposite of gay-panic but notices that he has some weird feelings whenever he looks at Bob.

The rest of the day went by painfully slow since copying his paperwork took up the majority of his time. Eventually he made it back home with little interference and replaced his work clothes with casual ones. While getting dressed he debated whether or not a casual button up would be too dressy. He wished it wasn't so late over in Liverpool so he could just FaceTime Ringo and bombard him with the thousands of questions running through his head right now, 

How do you make small talk? Do these shoes match? What if he tries to take me home with him?, What if I want to go home with him?.

He paused briefly when the last thought ran through his mind, 

“What?” He said to himself out loud. 

No, ridiculous, impossible even. Every relationship that George ever had was with a woman and he had been perfectly happy. The thought of being with a man was humorous, so much so that George even laughed quietly to himself when the thought passed his mind, ignoring the strange tightness in his chest. 

He eyed the bag of hair product in the corner before shaking his head and deciding against it. The last thing he wants to do is have Bob think that he wanted to look nice for him. 

After checking the flier approximately fifty times, George left the house an hour earlier than he should have and arrived at Cafe Wha? while there were still three acts before Bob. The venue jutted out on a corner, the sign practically screaming at you with its wonky, brightly coloured letters. It looked like something out of a twisted children's book, like a fucked up Alice in Wonderland. 

The sun had set sometime ago, engulfing the city in darkness. New York seemed to thrive off of it however, when the light in the sky went out, the lights of the city took over illuminating the streets. Big, flashy signs advertising everything from Coke-a-Cola to iPhones were enough to light the way on dark street corners so George could see all that lurked in inky blackness. Nothing interesting seems to hide there however, some litter, an abandoned pair of sunglasses, a rat scurrying into a storm drain. New York was a baffling place to George, it had the talent of being mind bendingly strange and frustratingly ordinary at the same time. 

As George ducked through the door way into Cafe Wha? he was met with the almost intoxicating smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Music twisted its way through the air all around him, the words to a Jefferson Airplane song buzzing through his head ‘One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small’. 

He nervously looked at the tables scattered across the floor and the people occupying those tables. Some were listening intently, others just chatting with friends. George scanned his eyes over the large crowd of people but unfortunately did not spot even the slightest evidence of Bobs mop of curly hair in the crowd. Great, now Bob’s going to see that he got here before him and probably think that he was excited about seeing him or something. 

Fuck, this night was off to a bad start. 

George bites his lip nervously, looking again through the crowd but relaxes once he spots a man leaning against the far wall, cigarette in hand, his curls creating a halo around his head. He looks incredibly natural standing there, like the focus of a painting when each finger and strand of hair meticulously placed in order to portray a certain mood. George weaves through the tables, trying not to trip, which was way harder with the dim lighting. 

Bob was oblivious to George’s presence until the last possible moment when the man was practically standing face to face with him. Once Bob's eyes focus on George’s face, the realisation hits him and a huge smile breaks out on his face, causing little crinkles to form in the corners of his eyes. George feels like that’s something he shouldn’t focus too hard on but commits the small detail to memory anyway. 

“Hey, you made it!” Bob says rather loudly over the music. 

George nods, reaching up to offer a wave but his arm is pressed down tightly to his side when he is suddenly pulled into a bone crushing hug. 

“So glad you could be here, it's George right?” Bob says in his ear, using the same volume as before. 

George tries his best to lean his head to the side to protect the well-being of his eardrums but the grip Bob has on him ensures that he is not going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Yeah” he responds while nodding his head quickly. 

Finally (and thankfully on George’s part) Bob lets him go, the same smile still plastered on his face. “What brings you here so early? I mean, it's a good thing because some guy didn’t show up so I’m going up thirty minutes before schedule” Bob asks and explains, running a hand through his hair and lightly kicking the guitar case at his feet. 

George can’t find the right words. ‘I came early because I was having nervous breakdown on the grounds that you might want to fuck me?’ No, that can’t be it. 

“Oh, you know, got off work early” he lies, keeping a strained smile on his face with the hope that Bob won't notice his anxiousness. Bob nods and Georges guesses that he is either oblivious or understanding of his attitude because he still has that cheeky half smirk on his face. The happiness reaches his eyes, his big blue eyes that reflect the light emitting from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. 

George tries hard to convince himself that this is not a sign, that this is simply a friendly smile. However, Paul's words are still playing on an endless loop in his mind. This dude is into you. 

“Hey, you like Johnny Cash too?” Bob asks, pointing at George's shirt. 

To be honest, George did not even know he was wearing it. He was so deep in thought while getting ready that every movement was done on autopilot. George looks down and, sure enough, he's wearing the Johnny Cash shirt John had gotten him for his birthday last year. 

“Uh, oh” George stutters out, trying to force himself back into the present moment, but he ends up sounding like even he is surprised to find out that he’s wearing this specific shirt. 

“Yeah” he concludes, nodding his head slowly. 

Bob's grin widens again. 

“No shit, he’s what inspired me to start playing music” Bob says. 

“Me too!” George blurts without thinking about it. 

“Really, you play?” Bob asks. 

“A little, but it's more of a casual thing. I’ve never performed or anything like you have” George explains. 

“I bet you’re great,” Bob says almost like it's a statement.

George smiles briefly in response before Paul's words wiggle their way back into his mind, causing his breath to catch like ice water was poured down his back. He’s into you, He wants to bang you. He subconsciously puts a few more steps of space between them.

Suddenly a wave of applause interrupts their conversation. Both Bob and George turned their attention to the stage and clapped even though they heard very little of what the guy had played. 

“Looks like I’ve got one more act before I’m on. Do you want to get a drink?” Bob asks, nodding his head in the direction of the bar. 

George nods and the two find seats at the bar that is hidden in a heavily shadowed corner of the room. 

“A beer please, the cheapest thing you got” Bob says to the bartender. 

George nods quickly and mutters “Same for me”. 

The two fall into silence, or, as close to silence as you can get at a live music club. Their drinks are set down in front of them, the glass bottles looking frosty from whatever cooler they were stored in. A bass in the background keeps a rhythm similar to the motion of a train, George can feel the vibrations in his chest, shaking his bones in time with music. 

“So,” Bob speaks up. George pulls his drink close to him and looks at Bob, the man's calm and casual attitude helping his nervousness slowly dissipate. 

“What kind of music do you play?” He asks, casually taking a drink. 

George does the same before responding. “Oh, y’know, classic rock stuff. Some Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, stuff like that”. 

“That's cool, man. I usually play more folky stuff and classic country songs” Bob says, tracing circles on the condensation that has gathered on his beer bottle. 

“I tried to play folk songs but I don't think my soul is tortured enough to make it sound right” George says. 

At that, Bob laughs. It’s so low that George can barely hear it but he can see Bob's shoulders shake and the corners of his eyes crinkle the same way they did only a few minutes ago. George smiles, feeling like he’s accomplished something.

“Hey,” Bob says, nudging George's shoulder as he turns his head to the stage. 

“I’ve seen this guy here before, his entire act is facial acrobatics” Bob explains. 

“What the hell is facial acrobatics?” George asks. 

Bob takes another drink before responding. “You're about to find out”. 

Sure enough, all that the guy did was stand on stage and move his eyebrows, nose, and eyes in odd directions in time with classical music that was playing from a boombox at his feet. George tried valiantly to maintain his composure, but a man performing facial acrobatics with a serious expression was just too much. While swallowing his laughter, George cast his gaze to Bob in the seat next to him. Bob turns his gaze as well. For a moment the two just stare at each other, the silence between them hanging heavy. Then, a very faint smile begins to crawl its way onto Bob's face. That's all it takes for George to become overcome laughter. Bob quickly joins him, the two taking turns trying to silence the other. 

‘Shh, you’re being too loud’ Bob says between heaving breaths. ‘You’re one to talk’ George responds through a laugh. 

George was thankful that they were hidden away in the far corner of the club because otherwise they would have gotten labelled as disrespectful and rude. The last remnants of Georges nervousness melt away in that moment and he can feel all the muscles in his back lose their tension and his hands unclench. So much so that when Bob places a hand on his shoulder he doesn't even flinch but instead just lets it happen. 

“The people you see in New York, am I right?” Bob says. George nods, taking another drink from his bottle. 

“So, what brings here of all places?” Bob asks. 

“Well, you invited me didn't you” George shoots back, his smile not having left his face just yet. Bob removed his hand to lightly punch George in the arm at that comment. 

“Not here you dumbass, this city” Bob says, motioning with hand high above his head in the general area. George sighs at that. 

“My job sent me on a business trip because one of their firms needed help resolving an issue in their cyber network”. 

“Wow,” Bob starts. “Sounds important”. 

George laughs briefly, taking another drink. “Certainly does sound like it doesn't it? But to be honest, Its just been a fuck ton of paperwork”. 

Bob nods and hums in understanding, tipping his head back to get the last drops of his drink out of the bottle. George watches from the corner of his eye, how the outline of his jaw is emphasized by the dark shadows the lights are creating, how his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought, brushing the whole thing off with the reasoning being that he’s tipsy and his mind is wandering, even though his bottle is still more than halfway full and George has never considered himself a lightweight. 

The two continue to talk about Georges work, his shitty boss, and even his strange new acquaintance Tom that he met in the copy room. Suddenly the classical music shuts off and weak applause follows as the facial acrobatics man leaves the stage. A large man wearing a three piece suit takes his place and looks closely at a small list in his hand. 

“Next up we have a Mister Bob Dylan who is gonna play a few songs for you guys so give him a warm welcome” the man's words are met with instant applause that doesnt even phase Bob as he rises from his seat, throws one last look at George, and picks up his guitar case from the floor before stepping on stage. 

George hadn't really paid much attention to what Bob was wearing until now but when he does he smiles. Bob is wearing the same clothes from the day before. The same halfway tucked shirt, the same baggy jeans, the same shoes (Somehow muddier than yesterday even though it hasn't rained). 

“Thank you so much, it's always good to be here,” Bob says into the microphone, his voice echoing around the small room. 

He lifts his guitar out of its case and throws the strap around his shoulder, strumming a few times to make sure it's in tune. 

“Now this first song is one that I wrote a couple of weeks ago for someone who is very special to me,” Someone in the back wolf whistles loudly. 

“Oh, shut up” Bobs responds, earning a round of laughter from the crowd. 

George can't help but notice how comfortable he looks up there, like this whole ordeal is just as easy as breathing. If George was the one on stage he would have shit his pants ten times by now. 

“As I was saying, I dedicate this song to my girlfriend Suze” At that, George freezes before sighing heavily in relief. 

Girlfriend, of course. George makes a mental note to rub this fact in Paul's face with pleasure. 

“This is called Boots of Spanish Leather” Bobs says before kicking off into a quick picking pattern. 

His fingers move so fast across the strings but it's done so softly that it seems like his fingers are floating on top of them. Then, Bob steps up to the microphone, taking a deep breath before he starts. 

“Oh, I’m sailin’ away, my own true love”. 

George feels a shiver run down his spine. His voice changes completely when he sings. The slow, smooth drawl that he uses when he's talking is left behind and is replaced with a rough, weathered voice that sounds as if it's coming from a man who has been everywhere and seen everything there is to see. Been through the war and back, seen the dark trenches and smoke covered skies. 

“I’m sailing away in the morning” The chatter dies down in the crowd, everyone becoming entranced by his playing, his voice. 

Bob plays on, moving steadily through his playlist while George moves steadily through his third drink. ‘Girlfriend’ he thinks as the alcohol starts to have a pleasant effect on his mind. Of course he has someone, why wouldn’t he? 

He’s handsome enough, he’s talented, he’s charismatic. It would be a shame if he didn’t have someone to appreciate all those aspects of him, someone to admire the outline of his jaw, the glimmer in his eyes, the growl in his voice when he hits a low note. George clears his throat to pull himself back into reality, checking his beer label to make sure there’s nothing funny about it.

“Well that’s all for tonight, thank you for being such a great audience as always. Good night” Bob leaves the stage with a round of applause and an embarrassingly loud yell from George in the corner as he claps his hands high above his head. 

After Bob packs his guitar carefully back into its case he rejoins Georges at the bar and orders another drink for himself. 

“So,” he starts, turning his gaze to the man next to him who sways slowly side to side with a content grin on his face. “What did you think?”. 

George knocks back the last drops of his drink before slamming the bottle down on the bar. 

“You were magnificent” he says matter of factly, turning to match Bob's gaze. 

Every detail stood out to George now, the curve of his nose, the barely noticeable stubble on his jaw, how his top lips formed a very subtle but perfectly pointed cupid's bow. At George's words, those perfect lips stretch into a smile. George turns his gaze away, ordering another drink and ignoring the fluttering feeling in his stomach. 

“Well, I'm glad you liked it, maybe I’ll see you here again” Bob proposes. 

George takes a drink and looks back at Bob. There’s something in his eyes that George can't quite identify, all he knows is that he likes it and would like to see it more. 

“Yeah, maybe” He replies.


	4. Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just read it.

George wakes up to the sun in his eyes which only worsens the pounding headache that is hammering against his skull. 

Snippets from last night start to come back to him. Bob playing, having a drink, having another drink, and another. 

With a groan he rolls over, blindly reaching over to find his phone to check the time, but when his hand is supposed to come in contact with the bedside table it instead hits nothing and falls to hang off the side of bed. 

‘That’s strange’ George thinks to himself with furrowed brows. 

Slowly, he peels open one of his eyes but the other shoots open when he registers his surroundings. He’s not in his hotel room, he’s in some shitty studio apartment with dusty ceilings and windows that overlook the bustling New York streets. He moves to sit up but stops when his headache worsens, causing him to have to lay down, cover his eyes, and wait for the room to stop spinning like he’s on a teacup ride from hell. 

“Good, you're up” a voice says and George can feel his stomach drop. 

He got drunk last night, he shouldn’t have, but he did. He would not have been surprised if he went home with a girl, had a little fun. But the one detail that makes George’s head go into a tailspin is the fact that the voice that spoke to him only a few moments ago ….was a man's voice.

He opens both eyes, fighting against his headache so he can see just how bad he fucked up. Once his vision focuses enough for him to make out more than just blurry shapes, George can see a man sitting at his small kitchen table, newspaper in hand, and a cheeky smirk on his face. George knows that he’s seen that smirk before, he just doesn’t want to let himself believe it.

“Oh, fuck” George breathes out and Bob laughs.

“Is that a standard morning greeting in Europe? Because it’s sure as hell isn't one here but I’m up for trying new things I guess” he says, getting up to pour another cup of coffee before carrying it over the bed and offering it out to George who simply groans again, not in the mood for jokes of any kind. 

He doesn’t accept it just yet, instead he sighs and says a prayer to any and all gods before lifting up the blankets to see if he’s wearing any clothes at all. Bob laughs again at George’s movements. 

“Lucky for you, I don’t put out on the first date, man” Bob says as he offers George the coffee once more. 

This time he accepts it. George breathes out a heavy sigh, relief washing over him when he realises that he is indeed still wearing all his clothes, minus his shoes that lay scattered on the floor just a few feet away. 

Then, as if his thoughts are catching up with him, he repeats Bob's last couple of words in his mind. ‘First Date?’. 

Thousands of questions are now spinning in George's head. This guy hasn’t exactly put his mind at ease when it comes to the whole ‘He wants to bang you’ thing. 

“Bob,” George says, trying to catch his attention. 

Bob hums in response. George scratches the back of his neck, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this. 

“You should probably know that I don’t like you that way and-“ Bob cuts him off with a laugh.  
George stares, confused as the man's shoulders shake. 

“Oh no, no, no. You’ve got me all wrong” he says, turning to lean against the small desk by the window. “I can assure you that my motives are purely innocent and heterosexual” he says, putting his hands up defensively. 

Bob begins to laugh again, and after a few seconds, George joins him, allowing some of the tension in his shoulders to subside. After the laughter dies down, the two fall into comfortable silence, the nagging headache in George’s head lessening slightly. 

George runs a hand down his face, setting his coffee down on the floor next to the bed. 

“What the hell happened last night?” He grumbles. Bob smiles and shakes his head. 

“Well,” he starts, taking a seat on the end of the bed. George sits up so that he cross legged and leans his back against the wall. 

“When my set was over we got another drink, when I finished that one you ordered another, and then another, and then you said something about how you were the ‘Master of Pool’ and proceeded to play a game. Spoiler alert, you are far from being the Master of Pool” George laughs briefly at that comment. “

You lost about thirty dollars to the guy who beat you. Then we decided to head out, I asked you where you were staying so I could get you a taxi and you said you couldn’t remember. I tried to call someone for you but your phone was dead. So I just brought you back here so you could crash on the couch but you got mighty comfy in the bed pretty much as soon as we walked in so I just took the couch” Bob takes a sip of his coffee once his explanation ends. 

George turns his head to look at the couch and sees the single pillow perched at the end and a throw blanket stretched across it. 

“Oh my god, I am so sorry” George says, pressing his palms into his eyes. He can hear Bob laugh through his nose. 

“Don’t be, man. I usually fall asleep on the couch most nights anyway” he says, staring down at the blackness of his coffee. 

“Yeah, but I’m sure you would have rather had your girlfriend over or something other than a stumbling drunk who steals your bed” George argues, picking up his own coffee and cradling it, the warmth spreading through his cold hands.

“Oh don’t worry about that. She’s off in Pennsylvania visiting her aunt and uncle, won’t be back for a couple days” Bob says before he stands and walks over to the small kitchen on the other side of the room. 

“Oh,” George responds shortly. 

“Plus, I don't really mind the company I usually hang by myself whenever Suze is gone,” Bob says as he pours out the remaining coffee in his mug before rinsing it out. 

The more time George spends around Bob, the more genuine of a guy he seems to be. With each passing moment he seems less like the musical Casanova and more like a nice person. Someone who lets someone crash at their place instead of leaving them to wander a city that they are unfamiliar with. Someone who offers said person coffee after they steal your bed for the night. 

George shifts his legs slightly to adjust his sitting position and notices how usually heavy his blanket seems to be. Instead of two blankets, it feels like George has ten piled on top of him. 

“Uh, Bob?” George says and Bob looks at him with squinted eyes. 

Not in a suspicious way but more in a I’m-Really-Fucking-Blind kind of way. 

“Have you noticed that your comforter weighs like fifty pounds?” George asks. 

“It’s fifteen pounds actually and yes, yes I have. My mom gave it to me, supposed to help with anxiety or whatever” Bob explains. 

George is slightly shocked. Out of all of the words he could have used to describe Bob Dylan, anxious would not even be on the list. If he is, his calm and cool exterior certainly does a spectacular job of throwing you off the scent. 

George settles on humming in response, deciding that he shouldn’t entertain that topic of conversation. Bob moves to look out the window and he hums questioningly. 

“What is it?” George asks, taking another sip of his coffee. 

“Nothing, Bob starts. “The streets just kind of empty for a Thursday morning”. 

At his words, it's like a semi truck comes bursting through the wall and hits George square in the stomach. 

“Oh shit” George breathes out as he throws the bed covers off of himself and tries to locate his shoes. 

Bob looks concerned, half convinced that George was about to vomit all over his living room. “What’s up, man?” He asks, collecting both his George's coffee cups. 

“I’m -fuck- I’m late for work” George says, glancing at the clock on the wall that tells him he is 45 minutes late. 

Once his shoes are tied, George makes a B-Line for the door. He mutters a quick thank you before closing it, speeding down the stairs, and falling out onto the street, leaving a slightly shocked Bob in his wake. 

Thank god the streets are not nearly as crowded today and George’s makes it to work in a relatively short amount of time once he figured out where exactly he was. 

He practically ran past the receptionist and fell against the wall once inside the elevator. The cold, metal walls cooling his forehead. Once the doors open on his floor, he sprints to his office, successfully dodging the painfully boring sports conversations aimed his way. 

George can not wait to be behind the doors of his office, bask in the peace and quiet. Except, when he opens the doors he comes face to face with someone leaving said office. The man is carrying an empty box and shuffles past him quickly. 

Once the man has left, George looks up to see his boss standing in front of his now empty desk.

“What’s going on?” George asks confusedly. 

His boss looks up with raised eyebrows. “Oh, you’re here” he responds. 

George’s eyebrows draw closer together when he realises that his name plate had been taken off the front door. It was hand written on a slip of paper but still, it meant something. 

“I.. I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you firing me?” He asks, fear rising up in his chest.

At that, his boss laughs, a wheezing laugh that comes from deep in his chest. George is in no laughing mood, instead he stands there with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. 

“No, no, no. We're simply moving you” his boss explains. 

“Moving me where?” George asks hesitantly. 

———————————

This had to be a sick, sick joke. The only place he could simply sit for hours on end in complete silence was taken away from him and replaced with a 6x6 cubicle with year old gum stuck to the bottom of its desk. 

George sighs and flops down into his chair, trying to ignore the way it creaks and squeaks every time he moves. 

This is the last thing he needed. Go out drinking, get a lot drunker than you should, go home with a guy you met yesterday, make said guy sleep on the couch in his own home, and now this. He groans as he lays his head down on his folded arms, trying to make the world disappear with pure willpower. 

“Hey, man” he hears a voice say, and with all the grace of a tube of jello, he pulls his head back up to look Tom in the eye who just so happens to have the cubicle right next to his. 

Tom stares down at him from where he has his head perched on the divider between their cubicles. 

“Woah” Tom says once he lays eyes on George's appearance. 

“No offence but you look like something who either deals meth or knows someone who deals meth” he says, looking down at George with a concerned expression. 

“Oh, that’s a shame. I was going for cocaine dealer chic but I guess something’s off” George shoots back, rubbing his eye with a yawn. 

“What happened to you?” Tom asks, obviously getting comfortable in this position. 

“Wild night out?” He adds, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis. George shoots him a warning glare that he, of course, ignores before he responds. 

“Something like that. Drank just a little too much” George says. Tom hums in response. 

“I’ve been there,” he says. Tom then stands, his head hovering a good three inches above the divider now. 

“But, on the bright side, you now have the world's coolest office neighbor” Tom says, gesturing at himself and nodding slowly. 

George smiles, or more like grimaces and mutters “Lucky me”. 

Tom seems like a great guy, very friendly, almost overly friendly, but great nonetheless. However, the last thing George needs on this shit show of a day is an overly talkative energetic cubicle neighbour. 

George reaches for his phone in his back pocket so he can check for any missed calls from Ringo or overly suggestive texts from Paul that use way too many winking emojis. But instead of his phone, George finds an empty pocket which is very efficient in causing his heart rate to pick up.

“Fuck” George sighs quietly. 

“What’s up?” Tom asks as he is unfortunately still present. 

“Forgot my phone” George grits through his teeth, burying his head in his folded arms once again. 

“Aw, that sucks. But maybe that’s good! I read an article last week that said it’s healthy to detox from our phone every once and awhile. Something about how the WiFi fucks with your brain cells” George refrains from banging his head against the top of his desk as Tom continues to speak. 

Once again, he gets the feeling in the back of his mind that this is going to be a very long work day.


	5. Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George’s hangover and fear of confrontation make for an interesting day. Bob wears an apron and cooks spaghetti.

The rest of George's work day was incredibly unproductive. After ten minutes, Tom had given up trying to make him “Feel Better” with his fun facts about Caribou and disappeared behind the divider between their desks in defeat. 

Every few minutes, George would try to at least look like he’s working by tapping a few keys and staring blankly at the monitor. However, the look of dread and utter disinterest must have been quite evident on his face as when Tom's lunch break came around, he returned shortly after with a donut wrapped in a napkin. 

He held it out to George with a child-like shyness. 

“Sorry about your shitty night” he said with a crooked smile.

Despite how positively awful George felt on this particular afternoon, a weak smile clawed its way up George’s face as he reached out and took the offering. 

“Thanks” he said with a croaky voice. 

Tom nodded quickly in response before retreating behind his cubicle. He bit into the simple glazed donut and, after realising how heavenly it tasted, consumed the rest of it the three bites. The copious amount of sugar that was required to make that specific donut was effective in lifting his spirits but once it settled in his stomach an overwhelming wave of nausea washed over him, causing him to close his eyes and count back from fifty.

A brief glance at the clock caused Georges chest to constrict as if a large snake was wrapped around it, in only fourty five minutes he would have to make the journey back to Bobs place to retrieve his stupid fucking phone. Make eye contact with him, talk to him, all with a pounding headache.

To be fair, his opinion of Bob had greatly improved over the last 24 hours, but he still had the nagging feeling of uncomfortableness every time he thought of the man. Not the kind of feeling you get when you think of a creepy old man in a trenchcoat approaching you on the street but more like the feeling you get when you accidentally call your teacher “Mum” or when you go for a handshake and the other person goes for a fistbump. An uncomfortableness that is harmless but still causes all of your muscles to tighten when you think about the embarrassment of it. 

George focused on this feeling and forced it to drown everything else he felt last night. The light in his chest that grew brighter as they laughed together. How his mouth went dry as he watched the shadows dance across Bob's neck that was glistening with sweat. All of that was irrelevant, not even worth the time he had spent thinking about it. 

After shaking his head and taking a large drink of water to clear his mind, George began to work once more. Typing, retyping, delete, delete, delete, retype. He became so hyperfocused on this task that when Tom rose from his seat, George jumped back in surprise. He reached out his hand to grip the edge of his desk in an attempt to keep himself from tipping over. 

“You okay there dude?” Tom asked apprehensively.

“M’Fine” George grumbled, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“Just spooked me I guess,” he added.

Tom hummed in response, stacking up his paper and throwing a backpack over his shoulder. 

“Well I’ll see you tomorrow” He said, pushing his desk chair back into place. 

George's head whipped around to find the clock. Sure enough, the sun had begun to sink down behind the buildings, casting a shadow across much of the city. 

“Shit” he said quietly, stretching to ease the cramping in his back. Tom gave him one last pitying smile before heading towards the stairwell. 

George took several deep breaths to calm himself. Bob did seem like a nice person but would that hold up after the little fit he threw this morning in an effort to get to work on time? George longed to procrastinate further by gathering his things but alas, none of his belongings were scattered about as they usually were. After throwing a crumpled up napkin in the trash, George made his way to the elevator and began his descent. 

Would Bob even be home? George couldn't decide what his ideal answer to the question would be and went back and forth between “I hope so” and “Please god, no” as he stepped out onto the busy new york street. 

In his rush, George didn't exactly take the time to memorise the route to Bob's apartment. He simply followed the antenna like structure on the top of the One World Trade Center like a glowing beacon as he knew his work building was close by. He vaguely recalled turning left just before he saw the double doors and began coughing up his lungs. So, with that foggy memory leading his way, George turned right and began retracing his steps. 

As he kept walking, the more familiar the path became and soon he was standing in front of an apartment complex that he was about 90% sure was Bobs. A glance in the direction of the buzzers confirmed this theory. In the messy scrawl were the words ‘Bob Zimmerman & Susan Rotolo’ encased in plastic next to a rusty metal button. 

George apprehensively pressed the button which creaked in protest before letting out a sad buzzing sound. He sympathised with it as his feelings about this day could be summarised with just a sad buzzing sound as well. A few seconds went by where nothing happened and George was sure he got his wish of Bob not being home. However, just as he was about to turn on his heel and head back to his place, a voice came over the speaker.

“Hello?” The voice was nasally, tired sounding, with just a hint of northern accent. Unmistakably Bob Dylan. 

George rushed back over to the speaker. “Hey,” he started just a bit too loudly. “It’s me um… George?” he said as if he was unsure of his own name. 

“Hey, man!” Bob replied enthusiastically. George could almost hear the smile in his voice and the knot of worry in his chest began to relax ever so slightly. 

“Come on up” Bob said as the door buzzed, allowing George to enter. 

After taking note of Bob's apartment number, George entered and began to climb the stairs. As he climbed, George very vaguely remembered being pulled up this staircase as his feet would not cooperate with his drunken brain. Just barely he could recall the feeling of an arm wrapped around his waist and his own thrown over another man's shoulder. George tried not to focus too hard on how his steps faltered at the recollection of his memory.

Soon he was standing in front of Bob's door and, even better, he was knocking. George made a mental note to give himself a pat on the back, what a brave chap he was being!

“Coming!’ George heard through the door, shortly followed by quick footsteps that drew closer.

The door then flew open to reveal Bob Dylan, in sweatpants, a tee shirt, no shoes, and wearing an apron that says “Classy, Sassy, and a Little Bit Smart Assy”. Bob greets him with a wide smile and opens the door further to allow George enough room to enter. 

He accepts the silent invitation with a nod and steps into the cramped studio apartment. It's a completely different environment than the one George remembers leaving this morning. A Johnny Cash record spinning on a turntable in the living room, spaghetti cooking on the stove, Buck asleep in the dead center of Bob's bed. It's homey, warm feeling even. 

“I hope everything worked out okay after you left this morning” Bob says as he returns to the stove to stir a pot that is bubbling over with sauce. George suppresses a cringe and replaces it with a quiet sigh. 

“Yeah, I got there okay. Sorry about my abrupt exit” George says as he shifts his weight from one foot to another with booths hands in his pockets. 

Bob chuckles quietly. “No problem, man. We all have weird days sometimes”. George is unsure who this comment is aimed at but nods anyway.

“Oh!” Bob says as if he just had a eureka moment and drops his ladle into the pot of sauce which goes flying in every direction. He speeds back into his bedroom and returns a few moments later with a phone in his hand. 

George is about to say thank you until he notices a rubber band tied around it. When he flips it over he finds that the rubberband is holding several bills tight to the back of his phone. Being at a loss for words, George simply looks at Bob with furrowed brows. Bob looks back at him with an expression similar to that of a kid who just got away with painting the family dog pink. 

“That's the forty dollars you lost last night” Bob tells him and George begins to sputter out something about how he can't take his money but Bob interrupts him. 

“Don't worry, it's not my money” he starts, reclaiming his spot in front of the stove. 

“I had to go back down to Cafe Wha? Earlier today to meet someone and DickHead poolplayer was there with a few of his cronies. You might suck at the game but I'm not half bad so I challenged them to a little game and upped the wager. It’s no big deal” Bob finishes as he moves the pot of pasta over the sink to drain the water out. 

George continues to make incomprehensible noises. This is the nicest thing anyone has done for him ever since he had touched down in this god forsaken city, in fact, he couldn't remember the last time when someone had done something this nice for him back in Liverpool. 

After a few more moments of George choking on his own words, Bob intervenes. 

“Dont have a fucking aneurysm, man. I told you it's no big deal. Do you want to stay for dinner, I made way too much for just one person” Bob says as he moves the pot of spaghetti to the table in the middle of the kitchen and then begins rummaging through the cabinets looking for two bowls. 

George continues to stand there for a few more moments, staring blankly at the floor. His mind is a buzz with thousands of thoughts all colliding with each other. Some are happy that Bob would be so kind to do such a thing, and some are scared that he will ask for something in return. In the very back of his mind, buzzing around like a greasy, little fly are Paul's words that have haunted him ever since they left his lips, “This guy wants to bang you”. 

Once he dares to look over at the table where Bob has taken a seat, he finds that Bob his looking at him expectantly. Saying the only thing that seemed appropriate, George utters a quiet “Thank you”.

The corner of Bob lips quirk up into a smirk before a full blown smile takes over, as if he couldn't hold it back. 

“Your welcome,” he responds. 

“Now have a seat, the spaghetti is getting cold”.

************************

The rest of the evening passes by smoothly, as the two converse over a warm meal. George almost felt silly for getting himself so worked up earlier. The knot in his chest completely relaxed as they traded favourite albums and television shows. Bob laughed at George's utter disgust at the fact that Bob had never seen a Monty Python film and his promise that this would be remedied soon. 

By the time George left, the city had become fully engulfed in darkness, the taxis shooting by like yellow steaks on a black backdrop. When George arrives back at his room, the remnants of this morning's hangover still dwell in the very front of his skull but are no longer threatening to blow his head to pieces. 

With a sigh he kicks off his shoes and lays back on the hotel mattress, lifting his phone up to see twenty five missed phone calls from Ringo and a mildly suggestive text from Paul. George shakes his head and vows to respond in the morning. However, before he turns off his phone, George notices a text from ‘Bobby’ that reads. 

‘I put my number in your phone, y’know, just in case you need someone to drag you home after a drunken pool game again. Hope to see you soon’. 

George reads the text, and then reads it again before laying down with both arms at his sides. As he stares up at the ceiling, he can't help but notice the giddy feeling that has grown and made a home in his chest. This time he allows it to happen, being too tired to do anything else, and lays there with a lazy smile on his lips. 

He had made a friend, or a friendly acquaintance at least, which was more than he had ever expected to come from this trip. He had made friends with a scruffy, guitar playing, apron wearing music nerd and was enjoying every second of it. 

Bob Dylan, 

what a fucking enigma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to my good friend Laura for helping with this chapter. Her Tumblr is littledarlingwellaway if you want to check her out, she is a wonderful human being!


End file.
